


Welcome Home

by Wolfe_Here



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Child Abuse, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-30 20:25:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8547958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfe_Here/pseuds/Wolfe_Here
Summary: Jesse McCree returns to his childhood home in an attempt to put some painful memories to rest.





	

The blistering sun beat down on the sun baked flagstones surrounding the derelict shack. The once gleaming white paint on its wooden panels had yellowed and curled under the merciless heat. The windows of the building bore filthy and broken panes of glass, the sheets lethargically hanging from their frames by will alone. The orange sand of the surrounding desert had piled up against the outer walls; grains of it occasionally kicked up in the dry and hot breeze. Under the window on the buildings right side, beneath the window adorned with tattered and yellow net curtains sat a badly bent and broken bundle of metal, the only remaining evidence of a small bench. Beside the useless scrap were two lighter patches of worn down wood where a pair of mens' work boots had once resided.

The sound of footfalls echoed through the hot and musty living room. The decrepit and broken furniture still sat where they once had been during the buildings prime. The walls wore graffiti and patches of dry splintered holes.

A man slowly pushed open the fragile wooden door. It whined and creaked as it threatened to fall off its hinges under the force of being opened. His heavy, booted steps were the only sound in the murky and stagnant room.

The man's eyes traced over the furniture and the patches of paler paint where photos and painting had once hung to decorate the living room he had known so well.

The man remained stoic as he made his way through the rundown building slowly but prudently. The floorboards beneath his boots ached and croaked under his weight. Absent-mindedly, he reached out a gloved hand, running it across the cracked paint, causing flecks and chips to flake off and almost trickle to the threadbare carpet beneath.

The kitchen was in a much worse state; its once cheery magnolia and yellow wallpaper had turned a sickly brown over the years of neglect.

The man stood in the doorway, and traced his fingertips over a chunk that had been removed from the doors frame. Lost in thought, his mind was consumed by memories long since past.

“Mama,” the little boy gave his mother a gap-toothed grin. “Lookie what I found!” The boy held out his cupped hands, making his mother stop. She was a very thin woman with a tired smile and dark hair.

“Jesse,” she started firmly. “What I tell you about bringin' them things in the house?”

“But Mama, I found him out back near the gas station! He'll be lonely if I don't keep him.” His mother shook her head at her son in disbelief.

“Now listen, here,” she started, an irritated tone to her voice. “If I told you once, I told you a—”

“Josephine!” a man's voice roared from the houses entrance, making both mother and son jolt.

“Jesse,” his mother whispered at him urgently. “Y'all need to run along now, Mama's gotta—”

“Woman, I am _askin'_ after you!”

The next few minutes of his memory was blurred and frantic. There was shouting, smashing, a gunshot and then silence. The image of the boy's mother sobbing and surveying the damage to the kitchen followed.

The man opened his eyes and regarded the hole in the wood under his fingers with an expressionless glance. His hand lethargically fell to his side as he pressed onwards, carefully making his way up the rickety staircase.

The air was staler on the upper floor. The dry and acrid scent threatened to singe his nostrils. The hallway was small and had several rooms sprouting off it.

The man stood frozen in his spot for a few moments, gathering the courage to push onward. To his left, sat a familiar table. Its surface littered with shards of glass and an old wooden clock on its side. A metallic prosthetic peaked out from underneath his serape to gently pick up the time piece and return it to its upright state. He paused, surveying the surface for a few moments before straightening the little clock to suit his memory. He tried to force out the sounds echoing from within his mind as he walked on with doubt and apprehension in every step. The man stopped at his old bedroom doorway. The haphazard chunks out of the wall where his father had all but torn the door off its hinges drew his attention for just a moment. He kept his head hung low; he couldn't bear to peer into the little blue room.

_You stay under **my** roof, eat **my** food, swan about here like you're the second fucking coming— I'll teach you, **boy**. You ain't **never** gonna slam this fuckin' door in my face again, you hear me?!_

The sound of him gingerly clearing his throat set his nerves on edge further. After a moment to steel himself, his brown eyes slowly looked up from under the brim of his hat. The vision of his childhood bedroom stared back at him.

The robin shell of the room was now closer to the sickly faded hue of oxidised copper. The walls were in the same state of disrepair as the rest of the house. Mangled toys cluttered the bare floor boards beneath his boots. His eyes rested on his bed, the mattress had been stripped and cut open, sprouting rusted springs and yellowed puffs of padding. A broken guitar lay with its splintered neck on the torn mattress, the body of it hanging lifelessly down the side of the bed on the worn floor.

The man carefully trod over the broken plastic and piles of unidentifiable linen and stopped, looking down at the damaged instrument. Memories flared up in his mind's eye once more, making his brows knit. The body of the guitar was scratched and faded with years of neglect, but the small, now sickly lemon sticker of a sheriff's badge on it was still there. It was almost admirable to him how durable it had turned out to be after so long.

His mother had bought it for him all those many years ago. She hadn't minded when he had told her he wanted to be the sheriff at the tender young age of seven. His father had laughed at the idea while his mother remained silent.

 _What do you wanna be one of them for? You reckon you're better'n us_ _**normal** _ _people? Long as you're livin' under my roof, you ain't gonna be one of those bastards, you hear me, boy?!_

The man let out a short breath and warily lowered himself onto the bed. His metal fingers reached out, ever so slightly brushing the tuning pegs, as if he thought it would disappear if he came into contact with it. The metal digits rested on the decayed wood for a few moments before he tightened his grip and warily pulled it towards him The tortured moans of the instrument seemed to eerily ring out into the deathly still air before it settled in his lap. He recalled the first time he'd ever laid eyes on it.

Jesse's father wandered through the screen door, his stout fingers clutching the neck of the cheap guitar. An out of tune thunk rang out through the little living room as he almost dropped the instrument on the sofa with utter disregard. His father had noted his stares since he'd walked in with the guitar.

“That sparkin' your interest, boy?”

“Yes, papa...” He stopped short of asking where his father had gotten it from, knowing that wasn't a subject he enjoyed being broached. His father seemed to consider the boy's words for a few moments before nodding at it.

“You clean my truck and paint the fence proper and I'll think about lettin' you have it. You gotta _earn_ it, y'hear?” The little one could barely contain his excitement. With a fervent nod, he all but leapt off the floor and ran outside. “Don't say I never do nothing for you,” he said with a small smile.

Jesse's mind went blank as his metal fingers clasped the neck of the guitar, forming an F chord as gently as he could manage, careful to not make a sound. The soft hum of the servos in his prosthetic arm was already too much noise for him. The inner workings of it whirred as he formed its beaten chrome fingers into the notes in a G scale. A soft and pained breath fell from his dry lips as he stared down at the fretboard.

_Wha's the matter with you? Can't you see I'm tryin'a get me some work done?! I can't feed this god-damn family if you keep up that fuckin' racket, boy! How long you been playing that thing for, anyhow? Shouldn't you be getting' better? Sounds like a fuckin' cat lookin' for a place to die!_

His body grew still. The memories were too much. He knew it was a foolish to return to this place after so long. What was he honestly hoping to achieve? he thought. Jesse's head drooped, feeling a swell of grief and guilt well up within his stomach like a churning surge of black tar. His memories flashed and whipped around his mind as his glazed eyes swept over the rooms corners. His eyes stopped, resting on a brown strap of rotten leather. Without a sound he shut his eyes tightly, trying to force out the bitter memories that flooded his head.

The chipped paint and decayed wood surrounding him taunted him in a deathly silence. The pungent air was still, regardless of his intrusion. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand upright. He rose to his feet, carefully placing the guitar back in its place and lit a cigarillo. The smooth and familiar scent of the burning leaves soothed his frayed nerves. He risked a cautious glance over his shoulder at the crumbling guitar.

The young boy sat with the guitar on his knee. His tongue sticking out of his mouth in fierce concentration. The awkward strums of notes fell pathetically from his fingertips as he clumsily manoeuvred around the fretboard. Just on the edge of his hearing, he could hear his mother on the phone with one of her friends.

“He's playin' on that thing most the day. He's doing so well, you should hear him.” A swell of pride bubbled up from within him as he eavesdropped. “Raquelle, I'm telling you, my boy's one of them savants. It's like he's gifted or something.” The pride was weighed down with a thick clump of dread. The little boy's fingers still felt alien against the wooden neck. “Well, I'm sure Bobby's just a late bloomer...” her voice sounded cold, almost disinterested. “I'm sure it's just luck that he's so talented. Probably nothing to do with us, but I mean, he practically taught himself, y'all know Henry and me aren't interested in music _anything..._ I tell you what, next time I see you Jess'll put on a show for you...”

A long, drawn-out sigh fell from his lips, a twinge of embarrassment made his stomach ache. He tried to steady himself. The repressed memories of his childhood were like a flood, thrashing fiercely against his psyche. The cool metal of his prosthetic against his clammy forehead helped ever so slightly. The pressure was becoming too much for him.

Jesse's legs moved of their own volition, almost dragging him out into the hallway. The dust particles floating lethargically through the air caught the light of the evening sun, diverting his gaze for just a moment. He adopted a hesitant gait, slowly wandering over to the other bedroom the house contained. His eyes bored into the door frame as he approached. It took most of his strength to tear his eyes from the dark and rotten wood.

The door was ajar. It was _always_ ajar.

His boots stopped at the threshold, planted firmly on the hall carpet. Trying to ignore the increasing pounding within his chest, he peered into the room. The bed was in a worse state than his had been. A large scorch mark ran down the centre of its battered and neglected fabric, exposing charred and brittle springs for all to see. A thin layer of icy sweat formed on his back as his eyes scanned the inside of the room. It was if his body was preparing to be lynched.

The memories that swarmed his mind were dizzying. Years and years of shouting, beatings, apologising to his parents for imagined slights, even more shouting. The pounding of his heart grew so severe, it felt like it was about to break out of his chest. The very feeling smothered him, making every stale and panicked breath he drew feel devoid of oxygen.

Why, he asked himself. Why was he there? After all this time, after all he'd done, was he back here, feeling as terrified as a young child. His fingers pinched the bridge of his nose. He couldn't bear to take his eyes off the room, almost as if he were expecting it to spring to life and devour him. An electric ball of rage and misery stabbed violently at the depths of his stomach.

Jesse hadn't cried when his mother had died, when his waste of a father had gotten her killed, nor did he cry when his father had died years later. He had tried to grieve, but was met by a cold slab of bitter stoicism in his heart. And then there was anger. The most grim, festering rage buried deep within his skin, sewn into his nerves. A hateful and impotent fury that he couldn't release, no matter how hard he had tried.

A few tears trickled down his weather beaten face, the damp streaks falling into his beard. He tried, unsuccessfully, to fight them back, yet they kept coming. Blurring his vision and stinging at his eyes. A metal hand clasped his face, the shock of its cool touch made him utter a pathetic whimper. He inwardly cursed himself for being so weak. Tears wouldn't help him now.

As much as he fought against his pain, it only seemed to make his tears come faster. With a furious roar, he tore his hands from his face and lashed out, smashing his metal fist into the broken door frame, making dull splinters snap out from the tortured wood and storming out into the hall towards his childhood bedroom. Frenzied shouting erupted from his mouth as he tore chunks from his old, rotten wardrobe. The incoherent cries coupled with the splintering of wood filled his ears. His hands shot out, throwing the toy cars against the brittle walls.

He had to break it, he had to break it all, smash it, tear it down with his bare hands. Rip the hateful bricks and mortar from their foundation; it all had to be destroyed.

In his frantic rage, his right hand clutched the neck of the guitar and rose to smash it. Jesse's breath caught in his throat as he suddenly became aware of himself, making him cease his tirade. The pathetic guitar hung from his trembling fist. Just how it had been broken in the first place. The barb in his memory made his heart ache. The memory of his father screaming at him, tearing his guitar from his grasp and smashing it over his knee forced its way into his mind. With a pained sob, he held the shattered, useless wood in his arms tightly, giving into his agony, and broke down.

After a long while, his bitter, heart aching sobbing slowed, giving way for trembling and sniffling. Hours could have passed since he'd huddled up into a quivering ball of tears. His body felt cold with exhaustion. Almost cautiously, he drew back, slowly opening his arms and fixing his damp and bloodshot eyes on the broken instrument.

This wasn't him.

The sound of his weight shifting as he slumped back onto the dusty wooden floor set his nerves ablaze. A shaky hand pulled a cigarillo from a small metal case and carefully placed it in his mouth. The smoke filled his lungs as he took in a quivering breath and hung his head. Jesse's reddened eyes stared out past the walls, past the oncoming blue/black hue of night, and became lost in passive thought.

The boy had run away after his mother had died. He had only been fifteen at the time. A young boy made to arrange most of her meagre funeral, cook his father's meals, do all the things his mother had once been expected to do. His father had remained in front of the TV, drinking progressively heavier as the days dragged on.

How he wished it was _him_.

The boy had tried to sneak out of his room at night. After gathering up a selection of clothes and whatever else he could fit in the small knapsack, he crept downstairs. Jesse's father had spotted him almost immediately.

“Where in the hell d'you think _you're_ going?” he had slurred. The boy hadn't replied. He forced himself to stand tall, bit the inside of his lip to keep it from quivering, and maintained eye contact.

They both knew what he was doing.

“You think you're so fucking special 'cause you lost your mama,” he said calmly, making the child's legs tremble. “I lost my wife, _boy_.” He watched his father turn towards him and tried to keep up the facade of confidence. “Don't reckon someone as stupid as you'd get that.”

Adrenaline swelled within his gut, surging and heaving, mixing with his bitter anger.

“ _Well?_ What you waiting for, you worthless sack of shit?! Get the hell out of here!”

“... It should've been _you_.”

His father stopped and tilted his head, his eyes squinted, barely concealing the rage behind them. “What?”

“I said,” he spat, “it should've been _you._ ” The boy found a small sliver of courage hidden deep within himself. “They came here lookin' for _you_ , you crooked son of a—” The boy was cut off, his father lunged towards him and grabbed a fistful of his hair. With a fierce yank, the boy was brought to his knees. Jesse thrashed in the vice-like grip, crying out in pain as the stout fingers tore hair from his head. His fist connected with his father's jaw, making his fingers snap open and clutch his nose. His father's hands shot out, wrapping around the child's neck.

“You think you can make a fool outta me, in my own damn house, _boy_?!” he roared, spitting small flecks of blood onto his son's face. “You ungrateful, bastard son of a _whore._ I'm gonna do what I shoulda done years ago.” Tears streamed from the boy's eyes as he frantically struggled for breath. His hands clawed at his father's arms in blind panic.

The scene playing out before him was too much for his young mind to take. The violent struggling, the almost shrill screams of his father overloaded his senses. Sheer hysteria took over his little body, and somehow, he was freed. Without a moment's pause, the boy's trembling frame bolted across the wooden floor, throwing himself towards the door, catching his shoulder on its frame and leapt out into the darkness. His father's furious bellowing echoed through the air followed by several blood chilling gunshots ringing out from behind him. The child pushed himself to the brink of nearly tearing himself apart as he forced his body to its limits.

The man sat unmoving with his metal hand interwoven in his shaggy fringe, recalling his memories of that night with startling clarity. A frigid sweat trickled down the back of his neck, following path of his spine. His exhausted eyes scanned the room surrounding him and he let out a heavy and bitter sigh.

That evening, he had come back to this wretched place with one intention: to burn it to the ground.

As he sat there, huddled up on the floor like a scared child, a glimmer of hope made itself known within him in the form of a change of heart. No. That wasn't what he was going to do. That wasn't him. Jesse had spent the past twenty years of his life forcing himself to be a good man, and he was damned if he was going to let his pitiful excuse of a family turn him into one of _them_.

A few final tears fell down his cheeks. His entire body ached as he lazily rose to his feet, kicking up some dust off the parched wooden floor. His fingers pinched the sides of his cigarillo, carefully tearing it from his dry lips. A shaky exhale followed. His weary eyes rested on the pathetic little guitar at his feet. A few silent minutes rolled by as he stared down at it, before slowly removing his serape and collecting the shattered pieces of wood within it. Jesse clutched the makeshift satchel in his hand, peering down at it for a few seconds before turning to leave. The noise of it clattering behind his back made his skin prickle with anxiety.

Jesse came to a halt and let out couple of shaky breaths. This house and everything about it, everything this house had ever held, was dead. No ghosts would slither out from between the dusty cracks in the wooden planks and dig their barbed claws into him. There was no force contained within that place that could tear him back through the doors once he'd left. The steps moaned and creaked under his boots as he made his way to the ground floor. A soft breeze danced past his damp cheeks as he gave the derelict living room one last sweeping glance. Without a word, he made his way to the door and slid a gloved hand across its rough exterior, making his way out into the cold, dark evening, never to look back at the house that held so many of his nightmares.

 


End file.
